'Back to America, Hiram!' Audouin cried in dismay, for he guessed the cause instinctively1 at once. 'Why, what on earth do you want to do that for?'
Hiram flung himself back in moody2 dejection on the ottoman in the corner. 'Why,' he said, 'do you know who has been to see me? Mr. Truman.'
'Well, Hiram?' Audouin murmured, trembling.
'Well, he tells me I've made a complete mistake of it. I'm not a painter, I can't be a painter, and I never could possibly make a painter. Oh, Mr. Audouin, Mr. Audouin, I knew it myself long ago, but till this very week I've hoped against hope, and never ventured fully3 to realise it. But I know now he tells the truth. I can't paint, I tell you, I can't paint—no, not that much!' And he snapped his fingers bitterly in his utter humiliation4.
Audouin drew a chair over softly to his friend's side, and laid his hand with womanly tenderness upon the listless arm. 'Hiram,' he said in a tone of deep self-reproach, 'it's all my fault; my fault, and mine only. I am to blame for all this. I wanted to help and direct and encourage you; and in the end, I've only succeeded in making both of us supremely5 miserable6!'
'Oh, no,' Hiram cried, taking Audouin's hand warmly in his own, 'not your fault, dear Mr. Audouin, not your fault, nor mine, but nature's. You thought there was more in me than there actually was—that was kindly7 and friendly and well-meant of you. You fancied you had found an artistic8 genius, an oasis9 in the sandy desert of Geauga County, and you wanted to develop and assist him. It was generous and noble of you; if you were misled, it was your own sympathetic, appreciative10, disinterested11 nature that misled you. You were too enthusiastic. You always thought better of me than I have ever thought of myself; but if that's a fault, it's a fault on the nobler side, surely. No, no, nobody is to blame for this but myself, my own feeble self, that cannot rise, whatever I may do, to the difficult heights you would have me fly to.' Audouin looked at him long and silently. In his own heart, he had begun to feel that Hiram's heroic figure-painting had turned out a distinct failure For that figure-painting he, Lotlirop Audouin, was alone responsible. But, even in spite of the great name of Truman urged against him, he could hardly believe that Hiram would not yet succeed in landscape. 'Did Truman see the Tyrolese sketches12?' he asked anxiously at last.
'Yes, he did, Mr. Audouin.'
'And what did he say about them?'
'Simply that he thought I ought never to have come away from America.'
Audouin drew a long breath. 'This is very serious, Hiram,' he said slowly. 'I apprehend13 certainly that this is very serious. Truman's opinion is worth a great deal; but, after all, it isn't everything. I've led you wrong so long and so often, my poor boy, that I'm almost afraid to advise you any farther; and yet, do you know, I can't help somehow believing that you will really do great things yet in landscape.'
'Never, never,' Hiram answered firmly.
'I shall never do anything better than the edge of the lake at Chattawauga!'
'But you have done great things, Hiram,' Audouin cried, warming up with generous enthusiasm, just in proportion as his protégés spirits sank lower and lower. 'My dear fellow, you have done great things already. I'll stake my reputation upon it, Hiram, that the lake shore at Chattawauga's a piece of painting that'll even yet live and be famous.' Hiram shook his head gloomily. 'No, no,' he said; 'I mean to take Mr. Truman's advice, and go back to hoe corn and plant potatoes in Muddy Creek14 Valley. That's just about what I'm fit for.'
'But, Hiram,' his friend said, coming closer and closer to him, 'you mustn't dream of doing that. In justice to me you really mustn't. I've misled you and wasted your time, I know, by inducing you to go in for this wretched figure-painting. It doesn't suit you and your idiosyncrasy: that I see now quite clearly. All my life long it's been a favourite doctrine15 of mine, my boy, that the only true way of salvation16 lies in perfect fidelity17 to one's own inner promptings. And how have I carried out that gospel of mine in your case? Why, by absurdly inducing you to neglect the line you naturally excel in, and to take up with a line that you don't personally care a pin for. Now, dear Hiram, my dear, good fellow, don't go and punish me for this by returning in a huff' to Geauga County. Have pity upon me, and spare me this misery18, this degradation19. I've suffered much already, though you never knew it, about this false direction I've tried to give your genius (for you have genius, I'm sure you have ): I've lain awake night after night and reproached myself for it bitterly: don't go now and put me to shame by making my mistake destroy your whole future career and chances as a painter. It need cost you nothing to remain. I misled you by getting you to paint those historical subjects. I see they were a mistake now, and I will buy the whole of them from you at your own valuation. That will be only just, for it was for me really that you originally painted them. Do, do please reconsider this hasty decision.' Hiram rocked himself to and fro piteously upon the ottoman, but only answered, 'Impossible, impossible. You are too kind, too generous.'
Audouin looked once more at his dejected dispirited face, and then, pausing a minute or two, said quietly and solemnly, 'And how about Gwen, Hiram?'
Hiram started up in surprise and discomfiture20, and asked hastily, 'Why, what on earth do you know about Gwen—about Miss Russell, I mean—Mr. Audouin?'
'I can't tell you how I've surprised your secret, Hiram,' Audouin said, his voice trembling a little as he spoke21: 'perhaps some day I may tell you, and perhaps never. But I've found it all out, and I ask you, my boy, for Gwen's sake—for Miss Russell's sake—to wait awhile before returning so rashly to America. Hiram, you owe it as a duty to her not to run away from her, and fame and fortune, at the first failure.'
Hiram flung himself down upon the ottoman again in a frenzy22 of despondency. 'That's just why I think I must go at once, Mr. Audouin,' he cried, in his agony. 'I only know two alternatives. One is America; the other is the Tiber.'
'Hiram, Hiram!' his friend said soothingly23. 'Yes, yes, Mr. Audouin, I know all that, I know what you want to say to me. But I can't drag down Gwen—born and brought up as she has been—I can't drag her down with me to a struggling painter's pot-boiling squalidness. I can't do it, and I won't do it, and I oughtn't to do it; and the kindest thing for her sake, and for all our sakes, would be for me to get out of it all at once and altogether.'
'Then you will go, Hiram?'
'Yes, I will go, Mr. Audouin, by the very next Trieste steamer.'
He rose slowly from the ottoman, shook his friend's hand in silence, and went away without another word. Audouin saw by his manner that he really meant it, and he sat down wondering what good he could do to countervail this great unintentional evil he had done to Hiram.
'Lothrop Audouin,' he said to himself harshly, 'a pretty mess you have made now of your own life and of Hiram Winthrop's! Is this your perfect fidelity to the inner promptings—this your obedience24 to the unspoken voice of the divine human consciousness? You poor, purblind25, affected26, silly, weak, useless creature, I hate you, I hate you. Go, now, see what you can do to render happy these two better lives that you have done your best to ruin for ever.'
If any other man had used such words of Lothrop Audouin, he would have shown himself a bitter, foolish, short-sighted cynic. But as Lothrop Audouin said it himself, of course he had a full right to his own opinion.
Yet some men, not wholly bad men either, might have rejoiced at the thought that they would thus get rid of a successful rival. They would have said to themselves, 'When Hiram is gone, Gwen will soon forget him, and then I may have a chance at least of finally winning her favour.' In this belief, they would have urged Hiram, in a halfhearted way only, not to return to America; and if afterwards he persisted in his foolish intention, they might have said to themselves, 'I did my best to keep him, and now I wash my hands forever of it.' All's fair, says the proverb, in love and war; and many men still seem to think so. But Audouin was made of different mould; and having once frankly27 wooed and lost Gwen, he had no single shadow of a thought now left in his chivalrous28 mind save how to redress29 this great wrong he conceived he had done them, and how to make Gwen and Hiram finally happy.
He sat there long, musing30 and wondering, beating out a plan of action for himself in his own brain, till at last he saw some gleam of hope clear before him. Then he rose, took down his hat quickly from the peg31, and hurried round to Colin Churchill's studio. He found Colin working away busily at the moist clay of Agamemnon and Clytemnestra.
'Churchill,' he said seriously, 'you must put away your work for an hour. I want to speak to you about something very important.'
Colin laid down his graver reluctantly, and turned to look at his unexpected visitor.
'Why, great heavens, Mr. Audouin,' he said, 'what can be the matter with you? You really look as white as that marble.'
'Matter enough, Churchill. Who do you think has been to see Winthrop? Why, John Truman.'
'Oh, I know,' Colin answered cheerfully. 'I sent him myself. And what did he say then?'
'He said that Winthrop ought to go back to America, and that he would never, never, never make a decent painter.'
Colin whistled to himself quickly, and then said, 'The dickens he did! How remarkable32! But did Winthrop show him the landscapes?' 'Yes, and from what he says, Truman seems to have thought worse of them than even he thought of the figure pieces.'
'Impossible!' Colin cried incredulously. 'I don't believe it; I can't believe it. Truman knows a landscape when he sees it. There must be some mistake somewhere.'
'I'm afraid not,' Audouin answered sadly. 'I've begun to despair about poor Winthrop myself, a great deal of late, and to reproach myself terribly for the share I've had in putting his genius on the wrong metals. The thing we've got to do now is to face the actuality, and manage the best we can for him under the circumstances. Churchill, do you know, Hiram threatens to go back to America by the next steamer, and take to farming for a livelihood33.'
Colin whistled low again. 'He mustn't be allowed to do it,' he said quickly. 'He must be kept in Rome at all hazards. If we have to lock him up in jail or put him into a lunatic asylum34, we must keep him here for the present, whatever comes of it. I'm sure as I am of anything, Mr. Audouin, that Hiram Winthrop has a splendid future still before him.'
'Well, Churchill,' Audouin said calmly, 'I want you to help me in a little scheme I've decided35 upon. I'm going to make my will, and I want you to be trustee under it.'
'Make your will, Mr. Audouin! Why, what on earth has that to do with Hiram Winthrop? I hope you'll live for many years yet, to see him paint whole square yards of splendid pictures.'
Audouin smiled a little sadly. 'It's well to be prepared against all contingencies,' he said with a forced gaiety of tone: 'and I want to provide against one which seems to me by no means improbable. There's no knowing when any man may die. Don't the preachers tell us that our life hangs always by a thread, and that the sword of Damocles is suspended forever above us?'
Colin looked at him keenly and searchingly. Audouin met his gaze with frank open eyes, and did not quail36 for a moment before his evident curiosity. 'Well, Churchill,' he went on more gravely, 'I'm going to make my will, and I'll tell you how I'm going to make it. I propose to leave all my property in trust to you, as a charity in perpetuity. I intend that you shall appoint some one young American artist as Audouin Art Scholar at Home, and pay to him the interest on that property, so long as he considers that he stands in need of it. As soon as he, by the exercise of his profession, is earning such an income that he feels he can safely do without it, then I leave it to him and you to choose some other American Art student for the scholarship, to be enjoyed in like manner. On that second student voluntarily vacating the scholarship, you, he, and the first student shall similarly choose a third incumbent37; and so on for ever. What do you think of the plan, Churchill, will it hold water?'
'But why shouldn't you leave it outright38 to Winthrop?' Colin asked, a little puzzled by this apparently39 roundabout proceeding40. 'Wouldn't it be simpler and more satisfactory to give it to him direct, instead of in such a complicated fashion?'
'Who said a word about Winthrop being the first scholar?' Audouin answered with grave irony41. 'You evidently misunderstand the spirit of the bequest42. I want to advance American art, not to make a present to Hiram Winthrop. Besides,' and here Audouin lowered his voice a little more confidentially43, 'if I left it to Hiram outright, I feel pretty confident he wouldn't accept it; he'd refuse the bequest as a personal matter. I know him, Churchill, better than you do; I know his proud sensitive nature, and the way he would shrink from accepting a fortune as a present even from a dead man—even from me, his most intimate friend and spiritual father. But if it's left in this way, he can hardly refuse; it will be only for a few years, till he gets his name up; it'll leave him free meanwhile to live and marry (if he wants to), and it'll be burdened with a condition, too—that he should go on studying and practising art, and that he should assist at the end of his own tenure44 in electing another scholar. That, I hope, would reconcile him (if the scholarship were offered to him) to the necessity of accepting and using it for a few years only. However, I don't wish, Churchill, to suggest any person whatsoever45 to you as the first student; I desire to leave your hands perfectly46 free and untied47 in that matter.'
'I see; I understand,' Cohn answered, smiling gently to himself. 'I will offer it, should the occasion ever arise, to the most promising48 young American student that I can anywhere discover.'
'Quite right, Churchill; exactly what I wish you to do. Then you'll accept the trust, and carry it out for me, will you?
'On one condition only, Mr. Audouin,' Colin said firmly, looking into his blanched49 face and straining eyeballs. 'On one condition only. Let me be quite frank with you—no suicide.'
Audouin started a little. 'Why, that's a fair enough proviso,' he answered slowly after a moment. 'Yes, I promise that. No suicide. We shall trust entirely50 to the chapter of accidents.'
'In that case,' Colin continued, reassured51, 'I hope we may expect that the trusteeship will be a sinecure52 for many a long year to come. But I fail to see how all this will benefit poor Winthrop in the immediate53 future, if he means to sail for New York by the next steamer.'
'The two questions ought to be kept entirely distinct,' Audouin went on sharply, with perfect gravity. 'I fail myself to perceive how any possible connection can exist between them. Still, we will trust to the chapter of accidents. There's no knowing what a day may bring forth54. We must try at least to keep Wintlirop here in Rome for another fortnight. That's not so very long to stay, and yet a great deal may be done in a fortnight. I'll go and look out at once for an American lawyer to draft my will for me. Meanwhile, will you just sign this joint55 note from both of us to Winthrop?'
He sat down hurriedly at Cohn's desk, and scribbled56 off a short note to poor Hiram.
'Dear Winthrop,—Will you as a personal favour to us both kindly delay your departure from Rome for another fortnight, by which time we hope we may be able to make different arrangements for you?
'Lothrop Audouin.'
He passed the note to Colin, and the pen with it. Colin read the doubtfully worded note over twice in a hesitating manner, and then, after some mental deliberation, added below in his clear masculine hand—'Colin Churchill.'
'Remember, Mr. Audouin,' he said as a parting warning. 'It's a bargain between us. No suicide.'
'Oh, all right,' Audouin answered lightly with the door in his hand. 'We trust entirely to the chapter of accidents.'
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1
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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supremely
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| adv.无上地，崇高地 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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7
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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9
oasis
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| n.（沙漠中的）绿洲，宜人的地方 | |
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10
appreciative
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| adj.有鉴赏力的，有眼力的；感激的 | |
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disinterested
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| adj.不关心的，不感兴趣的 | |
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sketches
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| n.草图( sketch的名词复数 )；素描；速写；梗概 | |
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apprehend
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| vt.理解，领悟，逮捕，拘捕，忧虑 | |
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14
creek
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| n.小溪，小河，小湾 | |
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15
doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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degradation
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| n.降级；低落；退化；陵削；降解；衰变 | |
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discomfiture
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| n.崩溃；大败；挫败；困惑 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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soothingly
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| adv.抚慰地，安慰地；镇痛地 | |
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obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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purblind
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| adj.半盲的；愚笨的 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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chivalrous
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| adj.武士精神的；对女人彬彬有礼的 | |
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redress
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| n.赔偿，救济，矫正；v.纠正，匡正，革除 | |
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30
musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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31
peg
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| n.木栓，木钉；vt.用木钉钉，用短桩固定 | |
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32
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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livelihood
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| n.生计，谋生之道 | |
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asylum
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| n.避难所，庇护所，避难 | |
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35
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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quail
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| n.鹌鹑；vi.畏惧，颤抖 | |
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incumbent
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| adj.成为责任的，有义务的；现任的，在职的 | |
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outright
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| adv.坦率地；彻底地；立即；adj.无疑的；彻底的 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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42
bequest
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| n.遗赠；遗产，遗物 | |
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confidentially
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| ad.秘密地，悄悄地 | |
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tenure
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| n.终身职位；任期；(土地)保有权，保有期 | |
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45
whatsoever
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| adv.（用于否定句中以加强语气）任何；pron.无论什么 | |
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46
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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47
untied
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| 松开，解开( untie的过去式和过去分词 )； 解除，使自由； 解决 | |
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48
promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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49
blanched
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| v.使变白( blanch的过去式 )；使（植物）不见阳光而变白；酸洗（金属）使有光泽；用沸水烫（杏仁等）以便去皮 | |
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50
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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51
reassured
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| adj.使消除疑虑的；使放心的v.再保证，恢复信心( reassure的过去式和过去分词) | |
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52
sinecure
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| n.闲差事，挂名职务 | |
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53
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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54
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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55
joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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56
scribbled
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| v.潦草的书写( scribble的过去式和过去分词 )；乱画；草草地写；匆匆记下 | |
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